The Deaths of:
by ashley.hillson2012
Summary: WARNING Each chapter is the death of a character and how I think the survivor would react. The last in this trilogy will be the death of both. I was in a depressed mood and wrote depressing stuff.
1. The Importance of Doctors

***Warning, definite feels and epic sadness If you want happy JohnLock, turn away now***

Sherlock Holmes was a famous detective. He solved crimes using an intelligence and passion that bordered insanity. He constantly called himself a "high functioning sociopath."

John Watson became his flatmate later in their lives and together they found how to fight, love, hate, and glue the pieces back together with one another.

Together, they worked cases and shared breakfast and watched over one another.

Therefore, when the shots happened, Sherlock was pushed past what he could hold. His handle on life crashed upon the floor. No matter what intelligence the man had, or control for that matter, became utterly useless in the face of loss.

This story is how Sherlock realized how important Dr. John Watson was to the world.

On a routine scene, Sherlock and John stood before a bloody mess that had once belonged to a pretty little thing named Dolly Molean. One of three murders of tourists that had occurred in the last two weeks. Today, Lt. Lestrade had called Sherlock and the two men had shown up in time to do a full overview of the scene.

With little said, Sherlock requested to look at the photos of the first two murders, as well as be informed of every detail no matter how minuscule.

"I mean ever detail, Lestrade. I don't want a piece missing." Sherlock said blandly, with a hint of irritation.

John stepped forward and offered an explanation. "He's been having the worst feeling that everyone has become liars."

Eyeing Sherlock, Lestrade informed the two of the murders. He continued to do so as they drove to his office where he laid out the folders upon a long table. Sherlock spread out pictures and document papers. Studying them in a way only Sherlock could, he pieced answers together for the questions that may otherwise have not been answered.

John and Lestrade spoke of the less technical pieces, such as what had been seen, who had been seen, and any other detail among Lestrade's memory John could pull.

Later in the evening, John came into the living room they shared and eyed the wall covered with clues from the case. He handed a cup of tea to Sherlock, who was sitting in the chair with his legs up, eyes glued to the wall. He accepted the cup regardless of his spinning mind, and sipped slowly over the next hour or so.

Three days passed before they were called, mid-afternoon, to another scene. This was another woman, another tourist. Sherlock and John arrived, looked over the crime scene, and went back with Lestrade to get pictures and more document papers so he could add them to the wall.

Late the next evening, Sherlock, whom had been intently staring at the wall for hours, suddenly rose sharply. John, sitting quietly with a book, started and spilled some of his drink. He looked over to Sherlock and recognized that face. He was coming upon an answer to a question that had yet to be found. He sat his drink and book down, rising from the couch just as Sherlock started for his coat and hat.

"He never hit the same place twice. He's going down the list of highest rated hot spots for tourists. I know where he will be next." As Sherlock flew through the front door, John struggled to follow behind him. By the time they arrived at the restaurant Sherlock was absolutely certain the killer would be, John had long caught up.

"Tonight, for certain?" John asked and Sherlock nodded, grim faced as he saw all the tourists, possible targets. John sent a text to Lestrade, telling them of the location and that it was possibly a false alarm, but also that Sherlock said it was happening. Lestrade said he'd send a few cars without lights.

"No one remembers him coming in and firing. He was always there already, hidden in the crowd. I gather he was picking his target over the span of time he felt comfortable about his decision. Possible held conversations with some of them, if not all. He made certain they were tourists." John nodded at Sherlock, roaming the heads and unknown faces of the crowd.

The restaurant was a lovely place, expensive but worth it to some people, or on some nights.

"Or," John ventured, "he offered them a fancy dinner." Sherlock looked at his partner, curious as to what he may have seen. The description of the shooter had been fairly basic to the backdrop anyone basically say a person as. Normal, medium height, brown or blond hair, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. These descriptions more often than not didn't match the murderer or assailant. John noticed the attention he was receiving and shrugged. "Just a thought." He mumbled and Sherlock looked away, displeased at the small amount of a distraction.

"It had occurred to me, yes." Sherlock said. "Scan the crowd and ask around if need be." John nodded and too the left, Sherlock headed to the right.

Minutes passed as he wandered slowly, pretending to be simply leisurely walking back to his table, or to the restrooms. He was just about to stop at a table with a young lady who resembled one of the victims when a sharp gunshot rang out. Screams and terrified people suddenly filled the room.

Unlike the rest of the room, Sherlock ran towards the sound of the shot, hoping he could save whichever tourist had been struck. On his way, he saw a few cops running as well, each had their firearm pulled. Just as he was rounding the last few tables, a cop rose, holding a hand out to him to stop.

"I'm helping on the case, I can help." Sherlock snapped, for he knew the man knew him.

"Stay back, this one isn't for you." The man said. A second stood and looked to Sherlock.

"Let him through." The new man said and the first dropped his hand, backing away. A few of the officers had already phoned for an ambulance.

Inside of Sherlock's mind, as well as his heart, he knew what to expect. The shooter was skilled and none of the other victims had survived. Worse even, John wouldn't have run from a gunshot and yet was no where in view. Regardless of what he knew waited for him, Sherlock moved all the way to where his friend lay.

Blood was already spilling from a corner of his mouth. The bullet looked to have gone straight through the chest bone, hitting a lung as well as a number of other things. Possibly the heart as well. He knelt down as John's eyes focused on him.

"I... saved her." He wheezed, talking about the lady huddled by some officers who were taking her statement. Sherlock felt a squeeze in his chest.

"She is alive, and well. You saved her life, John." Sherlock nodded at him.

Behind him, Sherlock heard a cop run in. He turned his body, watching as the man came closer.

"We got the son-of-a-bitch just down the road. Attempted suicide by cop. He's held in one of the cars now." The other cops nodded but Sherlock felt pain broil inside of him, heating his skin. He turned back to John who had a stupid smile on his face.

"Saved them..."

"You protected all the other tourists, John. You're definitely an amazing doctor." Sherlock said, wiping blood from the corner of John's mouth.

"It was... a.. privilege... with you..." John wheezed slowly. Sherlock knew the wounds were more than bad. He couldn't bring himself to think the word, "fatal," anymore than he could start dancing like a five-year-old girl.

Being a realistic, he couldn't tell John it was going to be okay.

"I was the privileged one, John Watson. You are an amazing man, of that I have no doubt. You did great things in your life." John smiled, laughing a little. He started coughing, blood splattering out from between his lips. Sherlock raised his hands to try and calm John only to get blood all over them.

"Shhh," Sherlock cooed, putting his hand on John's face, trying to calm him. He could hear the ambulance almost here but knew, by the way John looked, they wouldn't be on time.

"Sher...lock..." John whispered, his eyes unfocused.

"Right here," Sherlock whispered back, moving his fingers to prove his point.

"There... is ... no...thing... wrong... with you." He wheezed, smiling really big before his face straightened and his muscles relaxed. Sherlock waited a few moments, stiff as a board. Not even a breath came.

He heard the paramedics coming, heard the police ask him to back off, but nothing went through. Somewhere, he heard Lestrade say something but couldn't make it out. He felt the anger rising, rising higher and higher into his whole being. He slowly let John go, closing his eyes and trying to wipe the blood from his face but only smearing it. Sherlock stood and turned, seeing everyone before him. Lestrade was trying to say something to him, the facial expression that of a man trying to comfort.

Had that been what Sherlock had shown John his last seconds? Sherlock breathed out slowly and felt everything inside of him slip out with that breath. Using all the speed, strength, and knowledge he had, he spun into a policeman, grabbing his gun and running out of the restaurant. He heard them chasing, yelling behind him. He located the car with the murderer inside and he tore the door open.

"Do you know his name!" Sherlock yelled, startling the man. He looked at Sherlock with avid curiosity but didn't answer. Not even the gun leveled at his face seemed to make an affect. "Do you know the man you just killed!" Sherlock yelled once more, the ferocity and, maybe the look in his eyes, finally got to the man.

"No." To the sides, policemen paused, waiting to see what would happen.

"He was John!" Sherlock cocked the gun and fired three shots into the man, who looked startled that such a thing could have happened, before Sherlock was tackled by two officers. He screamed to be released, he screamed for John, he cried out for John. Lestrade came into view, prying the gun from Sherlock's hand, frowning a lifetimes worth of sadness.

"Weak pulse, too much blood loss." An officer said to Lestrade about the killer and Sherlock laughed in a way that Lestrade would later say had been closer to a madman's cackle.

"Sherlock, you just killed a man." Lestrade said calmly. Sherlock kept laughing. After they cuffed him, he paused in his laughter to ask if John would be there. The police shared a look but said nothing as they put him in a car. It was Lestrade's car. He sat in the front seat and he turned to face Sherlock as the back door was closed.

"I hope you realize what just happened." He said softly. "Do you know?"

"Of course I do." Sherlock scoffed, looking fierce and agitated. "Do you take me for an imbecile?"

"No, I take you for a sociopath. What did you just do, Sherlock? Tell me, because I don't know."

Sherlock smiled and leaned against the backseat. Lestrade was very unsettled by the smile and shifted in his seat. Sherlock smiled wider but made no move to Lestrade, only seemed to relax more.

"Of course. I wiped a useless bug from the Earth. Can I talk to John now?" He looked around expectantly, not seeming deterred by the empty spaces around him.

"Hold on tight there, Sherlock, I'll be right back." Sherlock nodded and Lestrade left the car. He made a call to Sherlock's brother.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Sherlock just killed someone."

"What?"

"The killer we were looking for killed John. Shot him in the chest. Sherlock snapped and shot him three times. Didn't make it longer than a minute." There was a pause. "He's not coming out of it. Keeps asking for John. You're going to need to get involved here."

"On it. Keep me informed in changes. Bring him here."

They hung up and Lestrade turned back to his car. The door, wide open, was an unwelcome sight. Sherlock, nowhere in sight and handcuffs on the top of the car, gave a very cold shiver down Lestrade's spine and he dialed the man once more.

**END**


	2. End Times

**Sorry this one took so long to get out. I cried more than I'd like to admit. I love them both but Sherlock is best :) Hope you enjoy, kinda, sorta. You get what I mean. Enjoy the tears! There you go.**

Doctor John Watson was a man of mercy. He'd seen much in his life he didn't agree with, most of those things he had no control over. Not even his best friend, who was crazy, he swore.

John tried, night and day, to keep Sherlock in place, happy and, most importantly, safe. Because Sherlock was a full grown man, this didn't work most of the time. It didn't stop John from trying.

Sherlock burst into the room, his coat swishing by his hips, an arm raised.

"John, we must go." He declared, before turning and leaving the way he came.

John, who sat at the table, the laptop on his table, raised and eyebrow and sat down his morning cup of coffee. He set it down, as well as stopped typing. He had been updating his blog but apparently, as usual, Sherlock was being rampant.

Within five minutes he was heading out the door. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, a glare focused directly upon John.

"What did you do? Laundry?" Sherlock snapped, heading down the stairs with a hop John was very curious about. What had wound him so much the he was going down the stairs like a teenager on his way to a date? John suddenly frowned and realized the real question he should be asking. How many people were dead?

"I was relaxed, savoring my coffee." John answered as they continued down the street to wherever the hell Sherlock felt he needed to be. "Why are you so uppity?"

"Lestrade called. He's sure the last few deaths have been murders made to look like suicide or accidents." John frowned, gazing around him and using the mental map of the city. His frown deepened.

"We aren't headed anywhere near his office."

"I'm aware."

"So where are we going then?"

"To the dead body." Sherlock stated, picking up the pace. John huffed but followed suit.

Not too longer later, Sherlock was bent over a corpse. John was looking over the accident area itself. The man, a younger, wiry fellow, had been skating down a path by water. He'd seemingly fallen over a large piece of wood on the trail. Though how he hadn't seen it was beyond any of them. He'd fallen so hard that the bone of his nose had snapped and gone straight up, puncturing the brain for an immediate death. Anyone who looked would assume it was an horrible, tragic accident.

Sherlock, on the other hand, shot up and spun to face John and Lestrade, a hand in the air.

"It was no an accident. had he fallen from tripping, not only would his hands be scuffed-which they are not-but his elbows would be scratched on the outside, not the inside. The wounds suggest he was already dead when he fell. His nose, on the other hand, doesn't show any sign of scratching but a blunt force impact. I would say an elbow or a bat." He walked over to the wood and continued. "This would not have fallen here, nor would it likely have been kicked into that place. Regardless of how it got there, it was placed afterwards.

"There are two sets of tracks on the pavement. One suddenly turned towards the other and the second suddenly was caught off guard." Sherlock moved towards a part in the grass that looked almost like the rest of the grass, only a few fairly unique parts. "He landed here, unable to catch himself because the bone had already gone through." He bent and snatched some grass from the ground which had some blood on them. Lestrade motioned for the team to check the site out.

"He was definitely murdered. And by someone either whom he was with or he'd just met." Sherlock looked at John. "We need to see the other 'accidents' before we can say much else."

John helped Sherlock lay out the evidence and statements from the previous accidents all over the last month. It took only five to six minutes before Sherlock had looked at the ones Lestrade had suggested were related before he asked for more, during recent months. Currently, he had about 27 dead bodies, all either suicide or accident. John figured they'd be there a while so he went in search of something to drink.

When he came back with two cups of coffee, he found Sherlock getting ready to go.

"I need to visit the places themselves. John, put the cups down." John set them down and sighed deeply as he followed Sherlock outside. They wound up visiting three places, all of which had little to give John but Sherlock only seemed to get more and more interested.

After visiting their fifth one, John exclaimed out and Sherlock turned to face the man he hadn't said one word too since Lestrade's office. "You said something?"

"I was wondering when you would show, or tell, me what you were after. If I'm not needed I 'd like to get back to my blog."

"Of course you can go back. I have just a few more to check." John nodded as Sherlock spun back around, most likely having already forgotten John was there. Again.

As John moved back towards the trolley, he thought about what he'd been writing in his blog. The actually topic wouldn't come to mind. Suddenly, a man appeared at his shoulder, grabbing his elbow. He started but could see no obvious attack.

"That man! He has a gun!" John spun, watching as if in slow motion as someone walked up to Sherlock, a gun drawn. Sherlock, oblivious, stood up and smiled at John. He seemed to have found something interesting.

"No!" John heard himself yell as he pushed as hard off the ground as he could. Sherlock recognized the shock and made to turn.

As John watched, a good ten feet away, Sherlock's body jerked as a bullet ripped through his back and out his chest. Shock made the man stiffen, blood starting to pool down his dark shirt. John kept running, his mind spinning and his heart racing like he'd been running for miles.

"No!" He heard himself scream again, a second shot jerking Sherlock's body. He dropped to his knees just as a third shot tore through his shoulder, obviously hitting bone hard. The shooter, who was now almost point-blank, turned to run but was tackled by authorities Lestrade had sent to keep an eye on the two.

At the last shot, John was close enough to get the blood splatter all over him. He grabbed Sherlock as the man started to fall forward, shock evident on his face, his mouth slack.

"No, no, no, you're going to be okay." John said quickly, trying to sooth Sherlock though he wasn't having a moment nearly as hard as John. "You can't leave me again. Not again. Stop this." His voice slowed to a whisper, hysterically fast. "Stay with me, Sherlock, don't do this. No, no, no." He pulled the man to him, getting wet, warm blood all over himself. Sherlock used some momentum to fall to his back, his eyes unable to focus.

"John!" He gasped out, blood splattering his lips and chin. "It's... kay..." He mumbled, blinking a little too fast.

John shook his head fiercly. "No, it's not! I can't do this without you. You're my anchor."

Sherlock smiled, his eyes fluttering closed. "my... anchor...it's... kay..."

His breath left him, fanning John's face which bordered tears. The moment John realized he wasn't breathing in again, he started crying, started melting into himself. The officers finally came over, having subdued the shooter, and didn't know how to handle John. He refused to leave Sherlock's side.

"No, no, no, no, no, no" He kept mumbling to himself, rocking back and forth with the man, whom he'd devoted his life to. Time passed slowly, the blood started to grow cold but John couldn't let go, he couldn't see the truth or it would destroy him.

Mrs. Hudson had poured him a cup of tea, having mixed one of his depression meds into it as smoothly as it would go, and handed John the cup. He sipped, made a face, and pushed it towards the other side of the table.

"I don't need those damn pills," he mumbled, rising from the table and grabbing his cane. He heavily limped back to his room and sat upon the bed, sighing deep. He heard Mrs. Hudson clucking about like a mother hen, mumbling to herself inaudibly.

John looked to the window, watching the world below live as if nothing had happened. It had been six months and still absolutely nothing had become of John's life. He kept expecting Sherlock to walk through the door, jabber about what he'd written in his blog, complain he didn't have a case, or pick on his about his limp being back.

Sighing, John turned and stood, he looked around the room and made sure he'd grabbed everything that hadn't been here before, and started to wander to the front door.

"Is it time?" Mrs. Hudson called.

"Yes. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hudson. I hope you well." He kissed her hand and started down towards the stairs. Soon a cab would be by to pick him up and take him to his new flat, one he didn't share with anyone. One that didn't have Sherlock everywhere.

John left the flat without looking back, without breathing deep one last time, without looking at the letters upon the door, without thinking what he was leaving behind.

Dr. John Watson left the last thing he had to remind him what it meant to be alive.


	3. Brothers

**So sorry this took forever to write. Hard week at work and plus I couldn't, for the life of me think of a plot. Please message me if you have a different idea for a different story. My creative juices are clogged. Please enjoy the story that will bring you to tears.**

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be like this, Sherlock thought. For the first time in his entire life, he didn't know what to think or even do. He saw his world spiral downward with John as his body fell, eyes already going blank without life. Sherlock, merely two feet away, was useless in helping in any sense of the word.

Why? His mind screamed as he moved forward, grabbing a hold of John just as he was about to land on the hard ground, the wetness of the rain making it difficult to hold on.

The shooter stepped forward, determination set in his features, those of a madman. Sherlock could see the loose wires in the mans head, the snapping that had brought the killer to full tilt. Sherlock felt John touch his face just so gently and he looked down, knowing he couldn't stop the killer and wanting to spend these precious moments with John. He was the only man that had ever succeeded in making Sherlock feel as close to normal as he could be.

Sherlock smiled at John, knowing nothing he said could make the pain go away. He felt a sharp, sudden pain and white exploded in his head. Before he landed upon the wet ground, he was gone.

Earlier that week.

Sherlock had been in the shower an awful long time, John thought, and was probably doing something he shouldn't be doing.

Rising from his chair, he wandered to the bathroom and knocked.

"Unless we have a case, go away!" Sherlock called and John sighed. Okay, so maybe the man was just bored out of his precious mind.

"Without a case, we get no cash. Without cash, we can't afford the water. So with you using all of it, I can only imagine how you intend to pay." John commented before wandering to the kitchen.

No surprise, Sherlock didn't get out from the shower for at least another half hour. By this time, John had updated his blog fully and had made something to nibble upon. He was ready to go for a walk just for the hell of it. Just as John put his hand upon his coat, predicting a wet afternoon as usual, he heard Sherlock's phone ring.

No surprise either, Sherlock only got out of the shower to answer the damn thing. John waited, listening for any perceptible happiness out of his flatmate. Sure enough, he heard a noise that could only be Sherlock feeling victorious.

With just a towel barely around his hips, Sherlock almost stumbled into the room. Water dripped from his dark curls, trailing down his shoulders and chest. John sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

"Get ready, John, we have a case!"

Half an hour later, they got out from their cab, stepping into the grass outside of a brick building. Only two police cars were present, nothing else to notify anyone that a crime had happened.

Sherlock glanced around, noting every tiny thing and deducting if it was important or not. They came up to Lestrade who seemed frazzled.

"The lady called, claimed her boyfriend was in the house. Everything is practically broken."

Sherlock frowned, eyebrow cocked, and said, "why are we here, then?"

Lestrade sighed, rubbing his face with one roughened hand. "Because her boyfriend has been dead three years. He died of a drug overdose two states over and she moved here with a friend. Also, she badly wants her stuff fixed this instant."

John suddenly realized that Lestrade looked almost ten years older. this woman must be causing some kinds of havoc upon the company present. Just as Sherlock was about to comment, a woman in her late twenties, respectably, shot out of the house. In her hand was a cell, her clothes barely hiding her body, hair done up but still hanging everywhere. She was loudly chewing gum as she strode, hips swaying overly exaggerated, up to the three men.

"Are these the guys gonna fix my stuff?" She asked, chewing loudly. John could have almost laughed aloud at the expression of utter disgust and horror that Sherlock showed, only for a moment. Lestrade seemed even older, suddenly.

"Excuse me, ma'am, I'm here to find out who did this to your home." Sherlock said, shifting ever so slightly to face her more. It was a trick to possibly get her to open up more. This was not something Sherlock wanted to do and John could have read that in his body language had he been blind.

"My ex, duh." She said, dramatically waving the hand that held the phone. "He's mad I got a new one so he came and ruined all my stuff!" She blew a bubble but before it could pop she stuck her finger into the bubble and started twisting it around her finger. John couldn't see Sherlock's face very well but could almost tell that he was one second short of dropping the case simply because of this woman. John honestly didn't blame him and was somewhat hoping Sherlock would leave so he didn't have to be here either.

"Isn't your ex boyfriend dead?" Sherlock asked, a tight snap to his voice. She didn't notice, rolling her eyes up to the sky.

"Well, yeah. Bless his dumb ass. But he got all kinda mad I got a new boyfriend, see? So he come back to prove I'm all his."

Sherlock put a hand to his mouth and glanced back at John, who could only shrug. So he sighed and turned fully to Lestrade.

"It was the current boyfriend. Tendency to date addicts, she still smells like it's smoked around her but she doesn't have it deep on her so she herself doesn't do it. Find him and you have the culprit." Sherlock started to turn away before the woman raised her arm a smidgen, like grade school.

"But it wasna him!" She cried and Sherlock paused. "He was with me when it happened. He's in the house right now tryna fix the mess."

Sherlock marched past her, wordlessly, and went into the house. John followed as fast as he could, apologizing in the process. Sure enough, the man who was supposedly the new boyfriend was half-heartily picking things off the floor. It looked like a tornado had rampaged through the house. John got there just in time to see Sherlock stop the man and question him about the ex boyfriend.

Within seconds, Sherlock left the man and came up to John, leaning close enough to talk but far enough to keep looking at the house. "He's currently so out of it he can't tell me the address of the house or if it were night or day. I'm assuming he didn't do it since the destruction is so chaotic he would be cut from the glass or bruised from falling objects. It's not him."

"It can't be the ex boyfriend, though. Did anyone get a look? She was probably high." John commented but Sherlock shook his head.

"She doesn't have the signs of a smoker, it wasn't her. She's addicted to addicts, that's it." He inhaled deeply and then pivoted back towards the man attempting to clean by picking one thing up at a time. By this time, Lestrade and the woman had entered but were watching from the distance of the first room.

"Was the house broken into? Do you even lock the front door? Where is the friend who let you stay?" Sherlock snapped, looking from the man who had a slack jaw to the woman who had her gum twirled so tight around her finger it was a wonder the tip wasn't purple.

"We lock it and it was broken into. Nothin' is missin' though. And Natalie is at work, she is over at the..." Sherlock cut her off with a wave of his hand. He stood still as his mind raced and suddenly he frowned.

"It wasn't your ex boyfriend. Ghosts don't need ta break into a house to come inside." Sherlock drawled in a voice that made fun of hers, only John and Lestrade seemed aware of it.

She had an old photo of him, one taken a few months after he'd died. She gave it to them, saying she didn't want it back. Lestrade couldn't grab it fast enough and Sherlock pocketed it.

Back at the apartment, Sherlock tapped a finger against his lower lip in thought. They'd gotten nothing more from the apartment or the couple. Although they were asked a few times if they wanted a hit, John had to tell them that Sherlock was just kidding and they were leaving.

John had made dinner, a simple meal, but Sherlock hadn't touched it. Trying to break into the mind of a madman with a plan was futile so John simply took a shower and went to bed. Around three in the morning, he was woken up by noises. Going to investigate, he found Sherlock on his laptop. The noise he had heard was Sherlock's leg tapping against the table.

Rubbing his eyes, John glared as Sherlock looked up.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Three fifteen in the morning." Sherlock said, looking back to the computer. "Does the hospital need you?"

"No. You woke me up with your noises."

"Oh. I will stop so you can go back to sleep." As if that settled the matter, Sherlock seemed to pretend that John was no longer there.

Frustrated, John did go back to bed and, as promised, Sherlock didn't make another noise.

In the morning, John was called into the hospital, which left Sherlock alone. Not too long after John left, Sherlock got a call from Mycroft.

"Lestrade tells me you ran off with a bit of evidence."

"It's not evidence. The woman didn't even want the picture. There's a small chance it even helps with the case. Who knows which boyfriend of hers the picture actually shows? There's no reason for anyone to believe a ghost ransacked the house."

"Lestrade would like you to take the picture in. Any possibility is still a possibility. I don't need to tell you that, Sherlock, you already know it."

With a sigh he hung up and called for a cab. He was down at Lestrade's office before he could think second about it.

"I see you talked with Mycroft." Lestrade noted, seeing the picture flung onto his desk. "Tried calling you but you wouldn't pick up."

"I was thinking."

"Yeah, well, we have a thought." He picked up the picture and frowned. "I got a name from her. SHe claims she saw him broad as daylight throwing her stuff around."

"Maybe I was wrong about her. Maybe she did drugs." Sherlock frowned.

"She isn't on any drugs. We did, though, run a background check. She's been clean most of her life. And her boyfriend did die."

Sherlock took the information, as well as a few files, back to his flat and set up his work station.

By the time John came home, Sherlock was still no where close to knowing who it could have been. All her ex's, anyone she associated with that she could remember the names of, had been so far accounted for. Not a single hair out of place and it was starting to look more and more like she would get her way. Sherlock had even toyed with the idea that they'd done the mess themselves and then called the cops, hoping to get new things. The problem, though, was they weren't insured and there so far hadn't been much to go on to find a culprit.

After hours of watching Sherlock stare at the wall where everything was tacked and put together in an attempt to make sense. John sighed heavily and looked to Sherlock who was just as comfortable ignoring the world.

"What if he's a twin? It has happened before."

Sherlock flinched like he'd just been punched and his head moved to look at John. After a moment, he held his hand out and John gave him the laptop. In less than five minutes Sherlock was on the phone. Just as John had suggested, the man was definitely a twin.

Eight hours later, John woke up to the sound of knocking. Sherlock was at his door.

"They found where he was staying but he'd left. Get up, we have a killer to find!"

John rose and followed Sherlock out of the apartment not too long afterward. They were making their way across a park when the rain started. Sherlock smirked at John's irritated face, for he'd forgotten his slick jacket.

"Are you upset about being wet?" Sherlock asked, a smile lighting his face. John glared at him.

"Not at all you right arse."

"Good because I can only fit me in my coat."

John was about to make a retort when he saw a familiar face behind Sherlock coming closer. At the expression, Sherlock turned around.

The man, a similar face to the one in the picture, was obviously headed to them. It was obvious the twin was just as caught up on drugs as his brother. The only difference is this brother was still alive to fight his demons.

"She was the cause of his death." The man said once he got close enough to comfortably stop. The two men let the brother go on. "She took all of his things. I just wanted his stuff. But the bitch stole all of it and sold it. I couldn't find any of it..." His voice trailed off and Sherlock made a move to go towards the man but suddenly his arm rose, brandishing a firearm. Sherlock stiffened.

Before either men could do anything, the brother fired. Sherlock heard a soft grunt and looked behind him just in time to see John's stricken, pained face as his flatmate began falling to the wet ground, blood wetting his rain-soaked shirt.


End file.
